


'til there's nothing to drain you

by ToAStranger



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Barebacking, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Obsessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-08 20:45:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3222854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an accidental body swap problem with his nephew, Peter finds out about Stiles' crush on him-- only for things to spiral out of control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'd get him to swap our places

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheDamnRiddler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDamnRiddler/gifts).



> If concerned, please see the warnings in the end note. 
> 
> Prompt: Derek and Peter get cursed and swap bodies. Unfortunately no one told Stiles. Peter decides to fuck with him in Derek's body but Stiles shuts him down with 'you're hot and all, but I like your uncle kthxbai' and Peter's all 'wut'  
> (thedamnriddler)

“You’re very  _fit_ ,” Peter says, the satisfied grin on his mouth too devious for Derek’s usual expressions as he runs a hand down over his chest. 

Derek sneers over at him.  “Stop touching me like that.”

Laughing, Peter holds up his hands.  “Of course, dear nephew.  It’s just… interesting.  You can’t blame me.”

“ _This_  is  _your_  fault!” Derek slams a hand down onto the table top between them, wood groaning. 

“That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

“ _Peter_ —“

The loft door slides open with a clatter, and Stiles steps it, face scrunched up as he breathes heavy, like he’d run the whole way there.  He pauses, swallowing, and holds up a hand. 

“Derek,” he says, eyes locked with Peter.  “There’s a—There’s a thing.  Witch thing.  Deaton needs to talk to you.”

Peter opens his mouth to reply, but Derek cuts him off at the start.  “Is he at the clinic?”

Stiles frowns, glancing between the two of them, and his head cants.  “Um.  Yeah.  Scott’s there waiting.”

Derek nods, and Stiles squints at him.  It must be quite the sight, Peter’s face looking so sullen and serious while Derek grins over at Stiles like the Cheshire cat.  Tilting his head, Peter lets Derek’s eyes stray down over Stiles’ body, and the boy seems to shift from foot to foot under his stare.

“You,” Derek says, tone sharp, and Peter blinks lazily over at him.  “Not a word.  I’ll be back soon.”

“Um.” Stiles holds up a finger.  “Peter, while I appreciate your sudden and fancy new interest in helping out, Scott and Deaton are kinda expecting Derek.”

“Derek’s busy,” Derek replies, jaw flexing as he jerks on a coat, grunting when he realizes that it’s his own and won’t fit Peter’s build properly before tossing it back down onto the table, eyes fixing on Peter with dark promise.  “Aren’t you, Derek?”

“Right,” Peter smiles.  “Busy.  Peter can handle it.  I trust him.  He is, after all, my favorite uncle.”

Stiles’ brows go up his forehead.  “Uh huh. Right. Okay.”

“Stay here,” Derek tells Peter, then glances at Stiles.  “You too.  Not a word,  _nephew_.”

“My lips are sealed.” Peter replies, watching as Derek storms out, leaving him with Stiles.

Rocking forward onto his toes, Stiles whistles softly as the door slams behind him.  He clears his throat and shuffles into the loft, heading towards the kitchen.  Gesturing over his shoulder, Stiles makes a face, and Peter silently realizes that Derek and this young man have grown closer over the years. 

And that he can takes advantage of that fact.

“What crawled up his ass?” Stiles huffs out a laugh, grin lopsided.

Peter follows after him, leaning against the counter and watching as Stiles bends to pluck something out of the fridge.  “No idea.”

“He seems stiffer than usual,” Stiles mutters around a bite of apple.  “Kinda uptight.  You guys fighting again?”

“Not exactly,” Peter tilts his head. 

Stiles raises a droll brow, settling next to Peter against the counter with one hip cocked.  “Uh huh.  What’d he do this time?”

Peter licks his lips, twisting to face Stiles more fully.  “We’re… close.  Aren’t we, Stiles?  Or, closer, anyways.”

There’s an endearing wrinkle between Stiles’ brow.  “Yeah, dude.  I mean… Yeah.  You know that.  What’s going on, man?”

“Nothing.” Peter shakes his head, eyes keen on Stiles’ face.  “Just… How close would you say we are?”

Stiles lets out a laugh that sounds completely bemused.  “Uh… I guess really close?”

Frowning, Peter’s eyes narrow, and Stiles reaches out to set a hand on his arm.  His gaze drops to where Stiles’ fingers are curved over Derek’s bicep, and he likes the feeling but hates the sight.

“I’d do anything for you, Derek.” Stiles says softly.  Earnestly.  “You know that.  And I know you’d do the same for me.”

Peter inhales sharply.  “Of course.”

Reaching out, Peter places his hands over Stiles’ hips, twisting them around to push the boy back against the edge of the counter.  Stiles frowns, lips parting, but before he can get a word out, Peter’s mouth— _Derek’s mouth_ —is on his. 

The kiss doesn’t last long.  Stiles completely freezes, eyes wide, but Peter lets it linger for a moment before Stiles jerks back with a little hiss.  He laughs awkwardly, squinting at Peter and licking his lips as he presses a palm flat to his chest.

“Um. Yeah,  _no_.” Stiles says, and Peter blinks as Stiles pushes him away.  “No, Derek, just… No.”

“I’m sorry.  I thought—“

“You’re attractive.  Really.” Stiles adds quickly, smelling sharply like worry and nothing like lust, and isn’t that interesting?  “And I care about you, I do.  But this… We aren’t—No.”

“We—“

“Plus, you know I’ve got the hots for your stupid uncle.”  Stiles says.  “You frequently  _remind_  me that I have the hots for your stupid uncle.  Well, more like berate me about it, but whatever.  Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m—“

“I’m gonna call Scott real quick.”  Stiles says, brushing by.  “Wait here.”

Peter watches him go, mouth slightly slack.  As he hears the line connect, Scott’s voice like static through the receiver pressed to Stiles’ ear, a slow smile curls over his lips.  He leans back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest, something warm and satisfied uncurling in his stomach.

“Interesting.”  


	2. Hear me prowlin' (I'm gonna take you down)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: OMG CHERRY. I'm going to need you to write more to that Derek and Peter swapping bodies. I really have to know what happens next (and I kinda hope that it gets explained that it was Peter messing around? Call me a softie, but I'd hate it if Derek's and stiles' friendship got hurt by that kiss). (bxdcubes)

Stiles glances between the two of them, eyes squinted, lips in a thin line.  At Peter’s side, Derek shifts uncomfortably despite the fact that he is finally, after quite a few trials and tribulations, back in his own skin.  

“So you were Peter,” Stiles says, slow like he’s trying to wrap his head around it even as Derek nods.  “And Peter was you.”

“Well, we were still ourselves, just—“

“You don’t get to speak right now,” Stiles holds up a finger, and Peter’s teeth click as he snaps his mouth shut. 

Derek is pleasantly surprised with how chastised he looks.

“So when you kissed me earlier, it wasn’t you.”  Stiles says, voice dull.

Derek blinks.  “What?”

Grimace tight, Stiles pushes to his feet.  “That’s what I thought.”

“Wait,  _what_?” Derek scowls, glances between Stiles and then Peter, and then his brows shoot up.  “Peter, what the—“

“Your uncle is a massive dick,” Stiles says, and his tone is too soft, intimidatingly so.  “I’ll call you later, Derek.”

He turns and heads for the door.  Derek watches him go, and then his gaze falls on Peter, angry and red.

“ _What_  did you  _do_?”

* * *

It is two days later, while Stiles is out for coffee and expecting Derek to join him that he and Peter finally talk.  He’s about to pay for his latte when Peter presses in close, slides his own card over the counter, and gives a charming smile to the barista behind the bar. 

“Add a tea to that order,” Peter says.  “And we’ll take it in house.”

Stiles blinks up at him, lips parted, shoulders tight.  “Are you  _you_  or are we playing  _Freaky Friday_  again?”

“I’m me,” Peter says, eyes skimming over Stiles’ features.  “Derek set this up for me.  Figured you wouldn’t touch me with a ten foot stick unless I could trick you into it.”

“Good guess,” Stiles says sharply, moves to brush by, but Peter catches him by the wrist.

“Stiles,” he says, voice low and grip firm.  “Stay.  It’s coffee.  Let me make what I did up to you.”

“It’s going to take a lot more than a cup of coffee,” Stiles replies.

“Then let me try and start,” Peter offers with another one of those charming smiles.

Stiles hesitates.  “Fine.  I’ll find a table; you bring the drinks.”

When Peter finally sits down across from him, Stiles’ leg is bouncing a mile a minute.  Peter sets his coffee down in front of him, porcelain mug clinking against the wooden table top.  Under the surface, Peter’s hand curves over Stiles’ knee and stills his leg.  Stiles’ jaw flexes.

“Sometimes I want to light you on fire again,” Stiles says.

Peter’s grin goes sharp.  “Oh, how I wish you’d have let me bite you when I could.”

Stiles’ eye twitches and he knocks Peter’s hand away from his thigh.  “So is this your version of apologizing?”

“Yes,” Peter nods.  “I won’t say I’m sorry because I’m really not.”

“For kissing me while in Derek’s body?”  Stiles huffs.  “Of course you aren’t.”

“Honestly, I thought you might be happy when you found out.”  Peter adds.  “I am, after all, the one that you _wanted_  kissing you.”

“Not like that,” Stiles shakes his head.  “And not ever again.”

Peter smiles.  “Liar.”

“Shut up.” Stiles snaps.

Inhaling slowly, Peter leans forward, elbows resting on the small table between them.  “I didn’t know you were interested, not in anything other than teen lust.  Now that I know, however, I can’t ignore it.”

“Try,” Stiles sneers, reaching for his coffee and faltering as Peter snatches up his hand in both of his. 

“What is it that bothers you, Stiles?  The lie?”  Peter asks.  “Or the fact that our first kiss was one that you couldn’t enjoy?”

“Our only kiss,” Stiles corrects quickly.

Peter’s eyes glint that dangerous blue.  “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“Over that crush so quickly?” Peter frowns, grip tightening around Stiles’ fingers, bringing Stiles’ hand up to his mouth, breath warm against Stiles’ rapid pulse.  “Are you so sure?”

“Yes,” Stiles breathes.

“Liar,” Peter mutters, lips brushing the inside of his wrist.

“ _Peter_ ,” Stiles says, airy and tight.

Peter hums, turning Stiles’ arm slightly, teeth grazing soft skin and tasting the salt of his body.  “I can give you anything you could ever want for.”

“There are people—Peter, there are people watching—“

“And what do you think they see, Stiles?” he asks.

Stiles swallows thickly.  Peter feels him shudder, and he grins as he licks over the tracks of blue under Stiles’ skin in one slow drag.  Lips parted, Stiles gasps. 

The spice of Stiles’ arousal is so heady.  Peter lets out a pleased rumble, kissing the heel of Stiles’ palm as Stiles’ long, delicate fingers twitch.  He can feel Stiles’ pulse thrumming away under his mouth and his fingertips, hear it pounding in his ears, and it is a much more pleasant sound now that he is in his own skin.  Knowing that in this state he can send the boy’s heart tripping with such a simple touch when even a kiss wouldn’t get a response when he was guised as his nephew.

His thumb trails along one of Stiles’ veins.  “The things I could do to you, sweet boy.”

It’s these words that seem to snap Stiles back out of it.  His hand jerks away.  Stiles stands, grips the mug of his coffee and drenches the front of Peter’s shirt and pants with its contents.  It burns but does not sting nearly as much as the rejection on Stiles’ face.

“I’m not your  _toy_ , Peter.” Stiles snarls before setting his mug down sharply enough to catch a few other customer’s attentions long enough to see Stiles storm away. 

Sitting there, wet and stained, Peter bites down hard on his own tongue.  He does not get up and make chase like he feels the urge to; a sharp tightening in his stomach, a primal instinct to chase, catch,  _claim_.  He receives a few snooty looks from the occasional patron, but is otherwise ignored.

He attempts to roll the tension out of his shoulders.  It doesn’t work. 


	3. all I need

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Okay, so, prompt for the body swap Steter verse - Stiles is still giving Peter the cold shoulder, and Peter still isn't sorry about much of anything and just wants to prod at Stiles' crush on him to get into his pants, but then... throw in some angst, some trouble happens, Peter gets cursed, and the only way to save him with the counter-curse has to be powered by a strong emotion (love), and Peter finally gets a clue. Too sappy?? (cywscross)
> 
> A/N: Changed love to trust as well as a trade of sorts, because it fits with my idea better. Hope that’s okay. Also, this is very, very loosely powered by Stay With Me by Sam Smith because I’ve been obsessed for months.

Peter makes a habit of pestering Stiles every chance he gets.  The occasional run-in on the street, at the grocery store, Stiles always doing well to skirt around him.  Peter recalls a fond instance where he finally got him alone, Stiles so skittish he knocked back against one of the glass doors in the freezer aisle.  That angry, pinched look on Stiles’ face tickled him to no end as he pinned him in, leaned close, felt the heat of Stiles’ body seep into his bones. 

The sound of Stiles’ quick pulse was almost too distracting.  He knew, just by the expression on Stiles’ face, that if given the chance Stiles would bite his tongue off.  They talked softly, all taunt and tease and venom.  Stiles was so beautiful when he was agitated, Peter had realized, all flush cheeks and spitting words.  He tried to lean in further, to slant their lips together, but faltered when he felt something hard press into his side. 

A taser. 

Peter had laughed.  “Where did you get that?”

“The important matter isn’t really where I got it,” Stiles said, glib but Peter could smell the excitement on his skin, could see way his pupils were wide and dark despite how angry he might’ve been—how angry he still is.  “What’s important is where I’ll decide to incapacitate you if you don’t  _back off_.”

Peter had stepped back, hands in the air.  “Of course.”

After that, Peter only really has the opportunity to corner him at Pack meetings.  Though, mostly his bothering consists of knowing looks and inviting smiles.  Other than the heady scent of spice that wafts off of Stiles, he wouldn’t get much of an indication that Stiles is all that bothered if it weren’t for the dark scowls Derek keeps directing his way.

He isn’t quite sure when, but poking Stiles’ buttons has become his favorite pastime.  The other Pack members have noticed it, not that Peter does much to hide the way he tugs on Stiles’ proverbial pigtails, but it only really hits him when Lydia gets Peter in the kitchen alone, her pretty mouth tilted in a foul sneer.

“What’s your angle?” she asks, tone as sharp as her expression.

“Pardon?” Peter smiles, brows going up.  “I’m just getting a drink—“

“Don’t play dumb, Peter.” Lydia says, sugar sweet and cutting as razor wire.  “You and I both know that you aren’t very good at it.”

Peter inhales slowly, leans against the fridge, and shrugs a shoulder.  “What angle are we talking about then?”

“Your little obsession with Stiles,” she says.  “Sans the fact that it’s  _majorly_  creepy?  It’s got all kinds of wrong written all over it.  So what’s the deal?”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Peter gives a slow shake of his head.  “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“Back off,” she says and her smile is anything but kind.  “Whatever it is you’re after, do it with someone else.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because I was a pretty key player in setting you on fire the second time,” Lydia replies pleasantly.  “And the next time it happens, you won’t be digging yourself out of the ground or waking up from a coma.”

Peter waits until she’s gone to let the pleasant expression on his face drop.  Mentions of the fire always make his skin itch.

On the way out the door, Peter catches Stiles’ gaze tracking him.  He pauses in the doorway, shrugging on his coat, eyes locked with Stiles’ from across the room.  Peter would enjoy nothing more than dragging Stiles’ along after him, fucking the boy stupid, and getting past this whole thing whatever it may be.  When Stiles looks away, attention draw by Scott as he asks about the most recent sighting of some supernatural something, Peter feels a tight heat in his chest.

If he can’t get fucked, he might as well go paint a few walls red.

* * *

He wakes aching, stiff, and there is a tightness in his chest that he has never felt.  His skin is hot—too hot—and his sheets are sticking to his body, sweat slick and flush.  Peter groans, turns over, and pushes shakily up into a sitting position.  His temples throb.

The first thing he does is shower.  It doesn’t help much, but it is a relief of cold water against that burning inside of him.  He climbs out shaking, nearly slips on the tile floor of his bathroom, and then pads out into his bedroom.  He has not felt like this since he was six and still not showing signs of the were genes. 

Dressing clumsily, Peter ambles through his bedroom with a heavy grogginess.  His eyes tear slightly, unblinking, breath short.  He is worried that if he closes his eyes, he might not have the energy to open them again.

When he gets to the loft, to Derek, he shoves open the door weakly.  Leaning there, Peter tries to catch his breath.  He wants to be angry, but he is too tired and too hot. 

“Peter?”  Derek frowns over at him, paces forward slow and cautious. 

“My dear nephew,” Peter says, reedy and thin as he looks up, sweat slipping down his forehead.  “I do believe that something is wrong.”

Derek barely catches him in time when his knees finally give out.

* * *

Someone is pressing a cold washcloth to his forehead, pushing his hair back from his face.  The long fingers feel soothing against his scalp.  It takes him longer than he would like it to in order to identify who is sitting on the edge of the couch next to where he’s been sprawled out.

He doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t want to spook Stiles off, especially not when just his touch is making Peter’s body stop that horrible twist-ache that it’s been doing since he woke up.  Easing under his ministrations, Peter lets out a soft breath that is a lot like relief.  Stiles’ fingers falter in his hair, and then keep moving.

“So what’s wrong with him?” Scott asks.

Derek sighs.  “I don’t know.”

“Should we go to Deaton?” Stiles asks.

“Scott and I will,” Derek confirms and Peter can picture that look of determination, that furrowed brow of his.  He wants to laugh.  “You stay here.  Call if anything changes.”

“Are you serious?” Stiles asks, voice tight.

“Stiles,” Derek says and his tone bodes no room for argument—which usually means that Stiles is going to try.

“Fine,” he replies curtly.  “Go.  But I can’t promise he’ll be breathing by the time you get back.”

“Thank you,” Derek says with a soft earnestness.  “We’ll be right back.  Call if you need anything.”

Then they’re alone.  Stiles sighs heavily.  The backs of his knuckles press lightly to Peter’s cheek, checking the heat there.  Peter leans into the touch and Stiles snorts.

“I knew you were awake,” he mutters, pulling away.

Peter is happy to find a few of his reflexes are still in order.  He catches Stiles’ wrist before he can move too far, bringing Stiles’ palm back up to his cheek in order to press against it.  Stiles’ jaw is tight as he stares down at him, and Peter offers up a lopsided smile.

“What a lovely nurse I have,” Peter says and is disappointed to hear how coarse he sounds. 

“Cunt,” Stiles sneers, straining to pull out of his touch.  Peter keeps a tight hold.  “Is this all an act, then?  You have something up your sleeve again?”

“Not this time, I’m afraid.”  Peter admits on a breath, turning his face into Stiles’ hand.  “You have very cold hands.”

Stiles’ eyes narrow.  “Ice would be better.  A whole bucket.”

“Derek would be upset if you ruined his couch.”

“He’d get over it.”

Peter huffs, rolling his eyes as he lets Stiles pull away.  “Fine, then.  Get me some ice.”

Hesitating, Stiles regards him for a long and quiet moment before pushing to his feet.  He wonders off into the kitchen, and Peter waits until he hears the freezer door open to start moving. 

Wedging himself up onto an elbow, Peter bites the inside of his cheek as cement oozes through his veins, keeping him far too weighted to move unencumbered.  He tosses the wet towel down onto the floor, eases to a sitting position with careful movements, but when he attempts to stand the room spins. 

He hits the floor with a loud thud. 

“Jesus, Peter.”  Stiles says, rushing over and kneeling at his side.

“I’m  _fine_ ,” Peter snarls.

It holds no weight.  Especially considering he cannot even sit back up until Stiles’ hands are on him.  They seem to make everything stop throbbing for a moment, give him a chance to catch his breath, and when Peter can finally focus again, it is on the concerned frown of Stiles’ lips. 

“You’re really sick, aren’t you?” Stiles asks, voice quiet.

“It seems so,” Peter grumbles.

They work together until Peter is back to lying on the couch, sprawled out and panting.  Stiles lays out the cool washcloth over his forehead again, checking his temperature first with the back of his hand and grimacing.  Peter wants to laugh, but instead he closes his eyes.

He’s not sure, but he thinks he lulls back to sleep for a bit.  When he wakes once more, Stiles is still at his side, still dampening his brow with cool water, but the room has gotten dimmer.  Clearing his throat, Peter blinks up at him, finds Stiles’ expression frustratingly impassive.  He opens his mouth to say something, to goad him a bit perhaps, but then Stiles is helping him sit up a bit and pressing a glass of water to his lips.

Peter drinks.  He drinks long and quickly, nearly chokes on it, surprised at how desperately he needed the water at all.  Over half empty, Stiles pulls the glass away and sets it on the floor next to them before easing Peter back down. 

“You really are quite a good nurse,” Peter says.

“And you’re really still a giant dick.”  Stiles replies softly, goes stiff as Peter drapes an arm over Stiles’ thighs, hand hot and big on Stiles’ hip. 

“Not all the time,” Peter grins.  “But I’ve got one if you’d like to see it.”

Stiles shakes his head.  “Why do you have to be a royal douche all the time?”

“You like it,” Peter’s grin goes broad.  “You’re pissed at me, sure.  But you like me.”

His fingers sink up under the hem of Stiles’ shirt, fan over the skin there.  Stiles quivers and  _yes,_  there’s that shock of spice.  That heady smell of arousal that permeates Stiles’ skin whenever they’re close, whenever Peter can actually get his hands on him.

Peter rubs circles into Stiles’ skin, slips his hand higher, finds touching Stiles so easy.  So much easier than any other movement. 

“Stop it,” Stiles’ lips thin. 

Peter sighs, arm going lax as he rolls his eyes again.  “You’re no fun.”

“You could be  _dying_.”

“Exactly,” Peter says, shooting Stiles that charming smile of his, thumb running along a sliver of skin at Stiles’ hip.  “I could be dying.  You really want to miss out on your chance?  Another tiny little crush gone to waste?”

Stiles sits straighter, expression going hard.  “It’s  _not_  a—“

The front door bangs open.  Scott looks breathless and Derek looks resigned.  They’re both soaking wet.  Stiles pushes to his feet and Peter wants to rip both of their throats open for interrupting. 

“What happened?”  Stiles asks.

Derek shakes his head.  “Nothing good.”

* * *

Peter demands to be taken back to his own apartment when Derek tells him that he probably won’t make it through the night.  They have an old scroll from some  _unseelie_  bitch that decided Peter had gone too far a number of years back—before the fire, before everything—and had finally taken retribution out of Peter’s hide.  Derek had said that they might be able to figure it out if they worked on it all night, might be able to piece things together, but it was a long shot.  Whatever this curse is, it is supposed to work fast.

He’d made his nephew take him home.  Peter didn’t want to die on Derek’s musty old couch. 

Walking slowly into his kitchen hours later to get a glass of water, Peter feels pain twist in his lower abdomen.  He nearly doubles, bracing himself against the counter.  The pulsing flare of  _heat_  takes him back to days he would rather not remember.  His claws leave grooves in the marble top. 

So consumed, he doesn’t hear his door open.  He doesn’t realize he’s no longer alone until someone is ducking down to loop his arm over their shoulders, taking much of his weight and guiding him back to bed.  Dumped on the mess of sheets, Peter sighs at the sight of Stiles standing there, hair mussed and cheeks flush.  He stretches, tries to leer, and knows Stiles is looking at his bare chest with everything but desire at the moment.

“You’re so stupid,” Stiles mutters, tucking him back into bed before disappearing out the bedroom door.

Peter lays there and waits for him to return.  He does, with two glasses, and sets them on the bedside table before taking a seat next to him on the bed.  Watching, Peter hums as Stiles holds out an ice cube to his lips.

“Suck on it,” Stiles says.  “It’ll cool you down a bit.”

Peter does as he’s told while Stiles checks his temperature with the back of his hand again. 

“Why are you here?” Peter asks.

“Because you’re right,” Stiles’ eyes trail as well as his fingers, down over Peter’s throat lightly, across his collarbone.  “I don’t want you to die and never know what it’s like.”

Peter catches his hand, shifts his weight.  Tumbling Stiles into the bed with him, Peter lets the pressure of his body pin Stiles to the mattress.  Stiles stares up at him with wide eyes, but he smells sweet with want.  Burying his nose against Stiles’ neck, Peter inhales long and deep.  Stiles shudders beneath him.

It’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth.  Peter can’t bring himself to care much about the difference, intoxicated on the way Stiles’ breath hitches when Peter licks a slow strip up the taut line of his throat.  Still holding his wrists, Peter pushes them up above Stiles’ head, teeth grazing the rabid  _thump-thump_  of Stiles’ pulse.  His moan is breathy and perfect; Peter wants to swallow it down and a million more.

“ _Peter_ ,” Stiles arches, fingers curling into loose fists where Peter has them trapped.

“Tell me you want this,” Peter says, voice rough and already wrecked by the way Stiles is trembling for him, already hard for him, smelling like desire and something a little more heartbreaking.  “Say that you want it.”

“I want it,” Stiles replies instantly, and his heart doesn’t falter for an instant.  “I want  _you_.”

Peter groans against his skin.  His own movements are shaky, sort of weak, but the more they move together and touch one another, the more like himself he feels. 

They kiss.  It is so much more than the chaste thing they shared in the kitchen while Peter was wearing Derek’s skin.  It is messy and hungry, their tongues twining, and Peter devours every breathy sound Stiles muffles against his lips as they rock together. 

The prep goes on for what seems like forever.  Peter strings Stiles out, pushes him to the edge and then eases him back away from it until the poor boy’s breath is hitching, hiccupping in his chest.  That’s when he finally fucks him, languid and steady, drawing each push-thrust out until they are both frantic for some kind of finish.  Feverish, Peter drives in hard, watches Stiles break apart beneath him and finds his own release moments later.  They are both spent when it is over. 

Peter lulls to sleep first.  He feels the lingering touches of Stiles’ fingers in his hair, of his lips on his forehead.  When he opens his eyes hours later, the other side of the bed is empty and cold, but his fever is gone. 

* * *

“Where is he?” Peter asks as he walks through the loft door.

Derek looks half dead at the dining room table, resting his cheek on an open palm.  “Who?”

“You know who,” Peter comes to a slow stop in front of him.

Sighing, Derek scrubs a hand over his face.  “So it worked then?”

“I guess so,” Peter nods, tone tight.  “What exactly was it?”

Shrugging as he gestures to the scroll laid out over the table, Derek shakes his head.  “We translated it.  Stiles said he had it covered.  Didn’t say exactly how.”

“And what does the scroll say,” Peter prompts, slow like he’s talking to a small child.

It earns him a dirty look.  “ _A gift of purity and an act of trust_.”

Peter pauses.  His brows pinch, but then he inhales sharply.

“Oh.”

Derek scowls.  “Oh?”

Without replying, Peter heads back out the door.  Derek doesn’t bother calling after him.

* * *

Stiles looks worn out when he answers the door.  He’s moving stiffly and his scent is dampened and mingling with something sour that Peter cannot quite put a name to.  Stiles’ brow goes up, standing the doorway but not crossing the threshold.  Peter has a feeling that he couldn’t step inside even if he tried.

“If I’d known it was your first time, I would have gone a little easier.”  Peter says with a shrug of a shoulder.

Stiles snorts.  “Part of the cure.  Or anti-curse.  Or whatever.  You’re not supposed to know about the gift when you’re receiving it.”

Jaw flexing, Peter searches for the right thing to say.  “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” Stiles replies.  “I told you that I wanted to.  I wasn’t lying.”

“Well,” Peter hesitates.  “Thank you.”

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest, shoulders going up.  “It really wasn’t that big of a deal, dude.  Plus, now you’ve got what you’ve wanted.  Maybe you can finally leave me alone.”

“Stiles—“

“Seriously.”  Stiles adds.  “You’re over it.  I’m over it.  Can we just go back to normal?”

Peter’s head tilts at the lie, but he keeps his mouth shut and nods once.

“Good,” Stiles breathes.  “Now get out of here before my dad gets home.”

The door shuts in his face.  Peter thinks it might be in more ways than one. 


	4. you'll come undone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Body swap follow-up prompt: In retrospection, Peter could have handled that a little bit better. He leaves Stiles alone, thinking he's lost his chance, until he sees Stiles recklessly endangering himself in the name of saving his friends because of some Big Monster-of-the-Week. So, in secret, Peter takes care of the monster on his own. He tries to keep it a secret, not wanting people to think he's gone soft or expect him to keep helping, but Stiles finds out anyway. (perceptions3key)

Stiles doesn’t meet his eyes any more than he has to.  Their first Pack meeting after sleeping together, Stiles doesn’t speak to him, doesn’t look at him.  There are glances passed between them, and it isn’t only Derek who notices the tightness in Stiles’ shoulders or the set of Peter’s jaw.  Scott keeps casting concerned looks at his friend, and Peter detests the knot of guilt he feels every time Stiles walks into a room.

They’re gathered around the living room, spread out and talking about what’s prowling the woods of the Preserve this time—stealing people in the night, drowning them, leaving the town in a panic.  Peter watches Stiles furtively, only when no one is looking, sees the hardness in his expression and finds himself wanting to ease the furrow of his brow.  Ply him with pleasure until he’s languid, lax, and unable to think about anything but Peter.  It is a selfish desire that Peter struggles to deny himself.

“So what are we going to do to lure it out?”  Boyd asks, arms crossed over his chest where he’s leaning against the brick.

At his side, Erica nods.  “I mean, it’s not like we have its M.O.”

“But we do,” Lydia insists, looking Stiles’ way.  “I mean, kind of, right?”

He seems to hesitate, lips thinning before he finally speaks.  “Generally boys in the adolescent range.  Dark hair, pale skin.  Lighter eyes, but three out of four is still a better chance than anything else.”

“What do you mean?” Allison frowns over at him from where she’s at on the couch with Scott and Isaac. 

“Bait,” Peter says.

Stiles’ meets his gaze for a lingering moment.  He shrugs, arms tightening around himself.  No one argues; they all seem content to let the announcement lie.  Peter wants to watch their blood run over the floor. 

“ _You_  as bait,” Peter says.

“Essentially.”  Stiles nods.

Peter’s eyes fall to Derek, expression hard.  “And you think this is a good idea?”

“Stiles knows what he’s doing,” Derek assures.  “And he’ll have back up.”

“Oh, and that’s such a comforting thought.”  Peter says with a glib bite. 

Spreading his arms along the back of the couch, Isaac raises a bemused brow in Peter’s direction.  “What’s got your panties in a knot about it?”

“The plan is just a bit too juvenile for my tastes,” Peter replies, eyes narrowing dangerously. 

Derek gives him a knowing look.  “Well, it’s the best plan we’ve got.”

“Well, um.”  Scott falters, glancing between Derek and Peter with a hand raised.  “I’m actually with Peter on this one.”

“ _What_?” Allison looks sharply his way.

“I don’t want Stiles risking himself,” Scott shrugs.  “He could die.  If there’s a different plan, I think we should do it.”

“It’s our best shot,” Stiles insists, firm, like it’s the end of an argument.  “And it’s my choice.  So we’re doing it, okay?”

Scott grimaces but gives a firm nod.  “Okay.”

The plans are laid out from there.  When they’ll do it, how they’ll do it, who will be where.  Peter watches at a distance, eyes on Stiles’ back.  There is an itch in his palms; a weight on his tongue that starts bitter, then briny, and then burning.  He wonders if it’s what longing tastes like.

Stiles looks at him from across the room and must see the dark look in his eyes because he holds Peter’s gaze as if in challenge.  It offers Peter a relief of sorts.  He hates it though, hates the way he has become so infatuated with Stiles, hates the way Stiles has him so wrapped up and doesn’t even know it.  Doesn’t seem to even want it. 

But that look, their eyes locked, feels like what he imagines they might have: dark, clear, moving, and utterly free.  Drawn from the cold hard mouth of the world, old and primal, live like a transmutation of fire.  Flowing and flickering, a burning grey flame.  Peter’s bones ache at the thought.  He hungers for the taste of Stiles in his mouth.

Clearing his throat, Stiles glances back down at the maps of the Preserve he swiped from his father.  The spell, or perhaps the promise of one, breaks.  The indifference that falls over Stiles’ face makes Peter snarl.  He does not hesitate to take his leave.

* * *

Peter takes things into his own hands.  He leaves Derek’s and goes out on the hunt.  It does not take him long; he was always the best tracker in the family.  The creature that has been preying on their town is now his prey. 

Peter may not be an Alpha, but he is certainly an Alpha predator.

* * *

It is not the first time he has underestimated the things he was out to kill.  Peter is begrudgingly grateful that Derek finds him in the early hours of the morning, covered in his own blood, as well as the Kelpie’s. 

He ends up on Derek’s couch again, laid out and semi-broken.  There is a groaning beneath his skin; Peter can hear his bones mending.  Behind his eyelids the electric flow of synapses and neurons create a light show.  He lets his mind wonder, so perhaps he doesn’t have to focus on the way his insides feel outside, and finds his thoughts lingering where they always seem to come back to lately: Stiles. 

His consciousness drifts.  On wakes and waves as his body sews itself back together, slow but steady.  Peter finds himself lingering on thoughts of what Stiles felt like beneath him.  To feel his pulse beneath his lips, feel him shiver under his fingertips.  It is with these thoughts that Peter’s breath finally evens.

There is someone at the door—or Peter thinks there is someone at the door.  Derek speaks to them in soft tones and then is gone.  There is nothing but quiet, and Peter is too tired to do much else by lay there. 

He keeps his mind on wistful musings.  It is eerily, frighteningly reminiscent of how he felt when he was coma bound.  Time seems to stretch on forever.  Lips press to his; for a moment he thinks that it is nothing but his imagination.  But when the kiss breaks and there is no longer heat or pressure, Peter opens his eyes and blinks.

“Stiles?”

Stiles’ mouth is in a tight line, on his knees at Peter’s side.  “It doesn’t mean anything.”

Peter tries to sit up, but Stiles’ hand on his chest keeps him flat.  “What—?”

“You didn’t have to do what you did,” Stiles adds softly.  “That’s me thanking you.”

“Stiles,” Peter says, brows drawing together. 

Stiles kisses him again, simple and chaste.  Peter’s heart races.  His fingers curl into loose fists at his sides, unable to reach out, angry that this gentle touch means so much. 

“Thank you,” Stiles repeats and then pushes to his feet.

Peter watches him go, chest tight.  He bites down so hard on his cheek that he tastes blood. 


	5. lord knows I can't change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: There was no prompt in my askbox, but thedamnriddler gave me some guidance on the next part. Previous ones can be found here under Body Swap. 
> 
> Prompt: (essentially) Peter has an epiphany.

Over the next number of days, Peter’s body knits itself back together.  It is agonizing sometimes, the way his bones twist back into shape, having shattered almost to dust.  For Peter, the process is slow, frustrating, idle; he forces himself to his feet by the end of the first day and walks with a limp until the next. Even after he has healed, he avoids his nephew and that gaggle of teenagers that always seem to be around him. 

There is still an irritation under his ribcage, like something is there that shouldn’t be.  It leaves him agitated, unable to settle, and he is tempted to claw his own skin off.  He knows that the attempted barbs Derek’s betas would throw his way the second he showed his face could be enough to set him off.  He waits until he knows that they should all be at school until he decides to go to Derek’s, perhaps to push this feeling, this crawling sensation off on him.  To find his relief in badgering his nephew.

Instead, he finds it the second he walks into the door.  At the dining room table, Stiles is sitting with Derek and talking in a hushed tone.  He stops when Peter steps in, lips thinning and back straightening out. 

“Who died?” Peter asks, head tilting slightly as he smiles with sharp teeth, padding across the room. 

“Apparently not you,” Derek replies dryly.

Peter places a hand over his chest, finds his heart beating heavily under his palm, and feigns hurt.  “You sound disappointed.”

“Maybe I feel that way,” Derek gives him a dull look, pushing to his feet.  “Stiles, can I get you something to drink?”

“I’d say whiskey, but I don’t think you’d give it to me.” Stiles says.

“You’d be right.”

“Coffee, then.” Stiles says, shifting in his seat as Derek moves to the kitchen.

There is a long moment when Stiles refuses to look Peter’s way.  Peter pads closer, the table between them, and clears his throat.  He watches Stiles’ eyes close, watches him sigh, and lingers on the part of Stiles’ lips.  Their eyes meet; Peter feels a thrum, a thrill humming through his veins.

“Stiles—“

“Don’t start,” Stiles shakes his head.

Peter frowns.  “But we already have.  Why not finish?”

“Because what you think we’ve started certainly isn’t something that I want to finish,” Stiles says.  “I’d much rather move past it.  Or forget it.”

“And what do you believe I think we’ve started?” Peter asks.

“Sex,” Stiles says.  “Mindless, no strings attached sex.”

Peter scoffs.  “And you’re telling me you don’t want that?”

“Not with you.”

Faltering, Peter blinks, then sets his jaw.  He leans forward, palms on the table, expression dark because Stiles is being completely  _honest_.

“Not with me?”

“No,” Stiles shrugs.  “Not interested in that with you.”

“Why not?  It’s a sure thing.”  Peter says, head canting, eyes narrowed.  “You certainly enjoyed yourself last time.”

The ruddy flush that blooms over Stiles’ cheeks spreads down, down his neck and beneath his shirt.  Peter feels smug, wants to see how far it will go, tonguing over his lower lip.  He feels ravenous and doesn’t know why.

Stiles inhales slow, and his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.  Mouth watering faintly, Peter tilts his head the other direction as he regards Stiles.  He smiles as Stiles shifts, scenting the air and catching the smell of Stiles’ arousal.  His eyes trail down and back up, brows lifting in blatant invitation.  Stiles’ brows pinch together.

“Been there, done that.”  Stiles breathes, arms crossing over his chest, long fingers gripping tightly at his own biceps.

The smug look on Peter’s face drops. 

“Do you want sugar or anything?” Derek calls from the kitchen.

“I want it so sweet that my teeth rot,” Stiles replies.

Peter’s lip curls up into a sneer.  “ _Stiles_ —“

“Not interested, Peter.”

An uptick; Peter feels like he’s trying to catch smoke in his hands.  “Liar.”

“I’m not interested in  _anything_  that you’re offering,” Stiles snaps.

There is a truth there.  A bitter earnestness.  Peter recoils.

Smile going eerily pleasant, Peter straightens out.  “Fair enough.”

Walking back out, two mugs in hand, Derek blinks at Peter like he’s surprised he’s still there despite the fact that they both know he was listening the entire time.  “Are you finished propositioning the minor?”

Peter’s grin goes tight.  “Yes, I am.”  It sounds final, but certainly doesn’t feel that way.

“Good,” Derek nods, setting a coffee in front of Stiles.  “If there’s nothing else, you can find the door.”

“Of course, nephew.”  Peter says with a mockingly polite dip of his head; his eyes don’t leave Stiles’ face.  “A question, though.  Before I leave.”

“What?” Derek asks, brows going up, exasperated.

“Is school canceled today?”

Stiles practically squirms. 

Derek glances between them.  “No.  There’s a new student that’s definitely non-human.  Stiles had a free period.”

“Are we distrusting all new supernatural creatures that stumble into Beacon Hills these days?” Peter scoffs.

“No,” Derek concedes with a slow shakes of his head.  “But it’s good to note.  Especially when said supernatural creature targets Stiles as a potential love interest.”

Peter feels something twist in his abdomen.  He finally meets Derek’s gaze, sees the challenge and the amusement there, but bites the inside of his cheek. 

“If that’s all?” Derek says.

“Until next time, Derek.”  Peter nods, already heading for the door, pausing just long enough for one last glance.  “Stiles.”

Stiles’ eyes stay glued to the dark surface of his coffee.  Peter slams the door when he leaves.

* * *

Peter isn’t all that surprised that he’s hard by the time he reaches his apartment complex—his thoughts lingering on Stiles and on Stiles’ defiance.  The angry pinch of Stiles’ expression seems burned into Peter’s retina, and Peter feels that crawling under his skin that he is slowly beginning to recognize as longing.  There’s that annoying thud under his ribcage, and he rubs his chest with a dark twist of his lips as he pulls into the parking garage beneath his building. 

He parks his car and kills the engine, the residual hum soothing him minimally as he sinks into the leather of the driver’s seat.  There are bright eyes and parted lips on his mind.  The way Stiles had been so hot for him, back when Peter was too feverish to savor it properly.  The  _noises_  Stiles had made for him, writhing beneath him, all lean muscle and pretty mewls. 

Peter palms himself and groans, hating how wound up he is.  Hating that Stiles isn’t in the car next to him, those long fingers easing beneath Peter’s waistband in place of his own.  He tries to remember all the subtle nuances of how Stiles’ smells—all that lemon-honey spice—when aroused but finds it short of the real thing.  Stroking over himself in short, rushed movements, Peter’s teeth go tight as he tries to picture all that pale skin, those long legs, the impossible  _clench_  of his body. 

Desire is not the problem.  Stiles wants Peter just as badly as Peter wants Stiles.  Peter twists his wrist slightly, moans, hips flexing up.  There are words ringing through his head, rattling around his skull. 

 _I’m not interested in_ anything _that you’re offering._

Sex.  Peter was offering sex.  The pace Peter has set slows; he stares sort of blankly at the visor above him. 

Stiles was certainly interested in sex.  He was even interested in having sex again with Peter.  There was a gap there, something not quite fitting together.  Peter grunts, rocking up into his own hand; heat coils familiarly in his stomach.  His pace quickens again.

He remembers how sweet and pliant Stiles had gone for him.   _I want it.  I want_ you.

It isn’t just sex.  It isn’t even a crush.  It’s  _feelings_. 

Peter comes sharply, abruptly.  There is realization on his tongue, not quite sweet, but certainly heady, certainly tantalizing.  His arches slightly, spills into his fingers in thick stripes, soiling his underwear with it. 

“Oh,” he breathes, panting lightly, brows drawn tight and mouth open.  “Oh, shit.”

What’s even worse, Peter thinks as he sits there with his heart in his throat, is that he has those feelings too. 


	6. bite chunks out of me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: attempted sexual assault
> 
> Prompt: Another prompt for the body swap Steter verse – Peter’s finally figured out what Stiles has been getting at, but now he realizes he has some possibly serious competition from that supernatural newcomer at Stiles’ school. Needless to say, Peter isn’t going to stand for that. But it’s difficult to win Stiles over when Stiles doesn't believe him about Peter returning his feelings. (cywscross)

Stiles’ moan is swallowed up between them.  His legs lock tight at Peter’s hips, fingers tangled in his hair, and Peter presses him back firmly to the wall.  Flush and rutting, they grapple, hands pawing needily at one another. 

The taste of Stiles’ soft whimper as Peter drags rough hands over his skin is addicting.  Stiles arches, gasps, lips parted and kiss-swollen as Peter mouths down over his throat.  Marks him. 

“ _Please, Peter, please_.”  Stiles mumbles in breathy pants, leaving red lines against Peter’s shoulders as they rock together. 

There is a fire that Peter wouldn’t dream of shying from building between them.  Stoked by each touch, kiss, shift of their bodies against one another.  The friction is sweet.  Peter’s movements grow more and more frantic; Stiles urges him on.

“ _I want you_ ,” Stiles pants against his lips between kisses, pulling Peter impossibly closer.  “Oh, god,  _I want you so much, Peter_.”

Peter comes with stuttering hips.  The world tilts, and he groans against his pillow as he opens his eyes.  He knows his sheets will need to be washed; knows without looking that Stiles isn’t in the bed next to him or anywhere in his apartment.  That Stiles hasn’t been to his apartment in months. 

He sighs heavily, pushes up from the mattress and slides from between his sheets.  Dragging a hand through his hair, he pads towards his bathroom. 

The fantasies are not new.  They have been occurring since Peter had his little epiphany in the car a month back; though, as time has passed, they have grown more frequent and more vivid.  It would be one thing if they were just carnal—just sweat and heat and orgasms—but there are many that are nothing but tenderness.  Syrupy sweet nothings that leave Peter aching upon blinking awake.  He’d hate to admit that those are his favorites.

There is a familiar tang of honey and lemon on his tongue as Peter frowns at himself in the mirror.  He rinses his mouth out with water, scratching with clawed nails over where his heart is thud-thud-thudding away in his chest.  He very nearly draws blood, stopping just shy, and flexing his fingers out reluctantly as he watches pinked skin heal rapidly. 

Inhaling slow, he thinks about what it would be like to have Stiles pressed flush with his back in the mirror.  Lips at his shoulder, long fingered hands over his chest and abdomen, bright eyes caught with his.  Peter climbs into the shower and jerks off to the thought of Stiles in there with him.

By the time he steps back out, he is already running behind schedule.  It is Sunday, and Stiles should have already gone to the local bakery to pick up a box of pastries for everyone at his father’s office.  Peter will have to aim for catching Stiles on his way out of the police station.

It hadn’t started like this.  At first, it was idle.  To find out what Stiles did outside of playing with wolves, of meddling in things no human should.  To find out what Stiles liked, what Stiles didn’t like, what his hobbies were.  Peter figured it might help, might ease his way back into Stiles’ good graces.

Somehow, Peter found himself tailing Stiles almost everywhere.  A slow, gravitational desire to watch him smile, laugh, gesticulate with his friends, with his father, with strangers.  There was a pull in his stomach, guttural and instinctual, and Peter followed it without question until it was nearly a daily occurrence.  By the time Peter was aware that what he was doing was beginning to border on something that wasn’t necessarily appropriate, he already knew Stiles’ schedule Monday, to Sunday, and back again.

Sundays had become his favorite days, though.  His most lucky.  On occasion, he could catch Stiles at the bakery, or just outside the police station, or at the local library.  Otherwise, Peter limited his actual interactions with Stiles down to Pack meetings and research sessions.  Limited himself while he gathered information, the best ways to go about getting back to being on Stiles’ green list—instead of the cautionary, wary one he was on now.  Sundays were the days he got to have Stiles to himself, at the very least, for a moment.

Today, however, is not like the usual Sundays.  Peter is walking down the sidewalk, a coffee in hand from the shop across the street, knowing that Stiles should be walking out in the next few seconds.  When he does, he is not alone.  Peter’s polite smile doesn’t falter for a moment.

“Stiles,” he says and the boy blinks over at him, not quite surprised but not quite expectant. 

“Peter,” Stiles gives him a small grin, comes to a slow stop in front of him as he zips up his sweatshirt.  “Hi.”

“Hello,” Peter says, takes a miniscule second to scent the air and savors the warmth to Stiles’ scent that has finally seeped back in after the passing of time; the way Stiles is more comfortable around him again has been something Peter reveled in.

“Nice day,” Stiles says, hands tucking into his pockets and the other boy at his side clears his throat.  “Oh.  Right.  Um, Peter this is Cris.  Cris, Peter.”

Cris doesn’t offer his hand, but when their eyes meet, Peter sees the silver glint.  “Nice to meet you, Peter.”

Cris stands tall with a charming smile, hands casually in the pockets of his jeans; skin a rich gold color, hair dark, eyes practically black if not for that blue-silver sheen.  There is a smell of wet dog on the boy’s skin, and something old beneath that.  Peter doesn’t trust him.

“Likewise,” Peter says, smile not meeting his gaze.  “Is the name short for something?”

“Crisanto,” he says.

“Greek?” Peter prompts.

“Tagalog,” Cris’ smile broadens; for a moment, his teeth look sharp.  “My mother is from the Philippines.”

“Interesting,” Peter replies, gaze flitting back to Stiles.  “I’m assuming this is the young witch Derek told me was attending your school.”

Stiles nods.  “He is.”

“Are you apart of the local Pack?” Cris asks, but they both know he already has that answer. 

“I am,” Peter says, if only for appearances.  “Have you met the others?”

“Only the ones at the school,” Cris says, leaning towards Stiles so that their shoulders bump.  “This guy is trying to convince me to drop by the next  _bonding session_.”

Stiles blushes.  The hand in Peter’s coat pocket curls tight, tighter until his own claws are digging into his palm. 

“Bonding session?” Peter repeats, brow going up, tone light.

“That’s what he calls your group meetings,” Cris says on a chuckle, staying in Stiles’ space, and Stiles doesn’t step away. 

Stiles huffs.  “When we broke out the card games it totally became a bonding thing.”

“Whatever you say,” Cris laughs.

They share a look that is something akin to adoration.  Peter clears his throat.

“Right,” Stiles says.  “Um.  We kind of… We have plans.”

“Plans,” Peter repeats.

“Yeah,” Stiles nods.  “A movie, um, thing.”

Their eyes lock.  Stiles’ gaze flits over Peter’s face as he licks his lips, shifting from foot to foot.  Peter takes a step aside, gestures to the open sidewalk, and feels his stomach twist in tight knots.  He doesn’t miss the way Stiles’ face sort of falls.  They ease past him, Cris bidding him a polite goodbye. 

Hand shooting out, Peter catches Stiles’ by the elbow and stops him.  Blinking owlishly, Stiles frowns, tilts his head, and Peter leans in.  His voice is low in Stiles’ ear, grip carefully controlled on Stiles’ arm because all he wants to do is drag him away.  It might even seem casual if it weren’t for the quiet words Peter mutters to him.

“Be careful,” he says. 

Stiles shivers at the heat of Peter’s breath against the shell of his ear, but there is an apprehension even as he forces a smile.  “Derek said what?”

Peter feels that tension in his stomach ease a bit.  “Your friend is not what he says he is.  I’m not sure what he might be, but he is not a simple witch.”

“Okay, sure,” Stiles nods.  “I’ll pass the word on to Scott.”

“Call if you need to,” Peter says and then releases him.

Stiles smiles and gives a small wave, moving to join where Cris is waiting more than a few paces ahead.  “Talk to you later, Peter.”

Peter watches them go.  Watches Stiles laugh, head back, hand over his stomach at something Cris whispers to him.  Despite his warnings, Peter knows that the joy is genuine.  He watches as Cris nudges into Stiles’ side and Stiles nudges back.

At his side, the hand he’d touched Stiles with flexes.  Peter throws his coffee away, still full, into the nearest trash can before heading for his car.

* * *

Stiles frequently has that scent of wet dog on him.  Peter recognizes at Cris’ scent, and every time he catches it on Stiles’ skin, he gets an itch in the marrow of his bones that is so bad he thinks he might break into hives. 

There is a permanently happy look on Stiles’ face.  Dopey.  Peter’s jaw ticks every time Stiles smiles because he knows it has nothing to do with him.  Stiles spends so much time with Cris that it is nearly impossible to find him alone anymore, to get the smell of Stiles—nothing but Stiles—unmuddled by anyone else.  It’s starting to drive Peter up the wall.

“There’s something not right about him,” Peter tells Derek.

“Who?” Derek asks between measured breaths, muscles straining as he repeats controlled reps in the doorway between the living room and his bedroom, bar placed in the threshold. 

“That kid hanging off of Stiles these days,” Peter says, watching him idly.

Derek pauses mid pull, glances Peter’s way and frowns as he eases himself down.  “The witch?”

“If that’s what he is,” Peter nods. 

Derek snorts, grabbing a water bottle off the table and taking a long pull.  “What makes you think he’s anything but?”

“Intuition,” Peter says.

“Because you’re the poster child for good intuition,” Derek rolls his eyes.

Peter clucks his tongue.  “Have you met the boy?”

“No,” Derek concedes.  “But I trust my betas.  And I trust Stiles’ judgment on who he’s dating.”

Peter inhales sharply, and then eases his expression into something nonchalant.  “Dating?”

Leaning back against the edge of the table, Derek nods.  “From what I understand of it.  I’m surprised you don’t already know that considering how much you’ve been tailing Stiles around.”

That leads Peter to pause for a moment.  “Pardon?”

Derek’s brows just go up, expectant.  As Derek’s lips thin, Peter grins roguishly, shrugging.

“I have to get my kicks somewhere,” Peter says.

“Well, whatever kicks you’re getting out of it, back off.”  Derek pushes from the table, padding back over to the doorway.  “Leave him alone.”

“I’m not hurting anyone,” Peter replies.

“You’re right,” Derek grunts, hefting himself back up into a steady motion, ankles hooked beneath him as he strains faintly.  “But that doesn’t mean that you won’t.”

Peter doesn’t comment on that.  “Meet the boy, Derek.  You’ll see what I’m talking about.”

“Fine,” Derek huffs.  “Next Pack meeting.  I’ll tell Stiles to bring his boyfriend along.”

Peter leaves, somewhat satisfied, but somehow burning.  On the elevator down, he thinks about how serene Stiles has been lately, thinks about the rank stench of someone else on Stiles’ skin, and he moves before he can stop himself. 

There is a dent in the wall when the doors finally open on the ground floor.  Peter’s knuckles are bleeding as he steps out.

* * *

Peter is almost frantic enough to break the lock on Stiles’ lacrosse locker.  He takes his time, though, waits to hear the clicks before he jerks it open.  His hands search—look for something, anything—for an article of clothing that won’t be tainted by anything.  That Peter can finally get the raw smell of Stiles in his senses again.  He almost doesn’t remember what Stiles smells like on his own.

Rummaging in the relative darkness of the locker room, Peter finally curls his fingers into something soft and cotton.  He pulls it from the locker, holds it up to his face and takes a deep breath.  Aside from the standard hints of sweat, cheap cologne, and deodorant, it smells of Stiles and Stiles alone.  Something in Peter calms. 

There is a clatter.  The door to the fields opening at the far end of the locker room.  Peter shuts Stiles’ locker, clicks the padlock shut, and slips just out of sight.  The players come pouring in, stripping on their way to the showers. 

Peter pays it no mind until Stiles is opening his locker up, pulling padding off and then his practice jersey.  There is all that lithe muscle Peter remembers.  He gets lost, briefly, in imaginings that are quite frankly filthy.  He gets so lost, in fact, that he almost doesn’t catch what Stiles and Scott are discussing.

“—my mom has been going kinda crazy,” Scott mutters.  “Like, a  _bunch_  of miscarriages have been happening.  And yesterday?  Apparently a kid down the street was brought in, but he died in the ambulance.”

“How?” Stiles frowns.

“His  _liver_  was missing,” Scott says.  “Like, harvested.”

Stiles’ nose wrinkles.  Peter’s gaze lingers on the expression.  It makes Peter want to grin, to reel Stiles in and kiss the look away.  He drums his fingers against his thigh.

“That’s disgusting,” Stiles says.

“I know,” Scott nods.  “Should we bring it up to Derek?”

“Bring what up to Derek?” Isaac asks as he joins them. 

Stiles throws a towel over his shoulder.  “Creepy dead children stuff.  Scott, did you take that red shirt back?”

“Nah, man.” Scott shakes his head.  “Maybe it’s at home?”

“Probably.”

“Creepy dead kids?” Isaac prompts them back onto topic.

Peter waits for them all to trickle towards the showers.  Only then does he ease from his hiding spot and head for the exit.

* * *

Getting caught is not something Peter plans on doing.  He sneaks into Stiles’ room to deposit his shirt, fully expecting to have to creep past Stiles snoring softly, and disappointed to find Stiles’ bed empty.  Taking another deep breath of the smell of him, Peter places the shirt in Stiles’ hamper, heading for the window to take his leave—any other night and he might linger, take in what has changed on the walls, on his desk, but he doesn’t know where Stiles is until he pauses at the window sill.

Outside, Stiles is at the curb talking with Cris.  They are smiling at one another, voices hushed but fogging in between them.  Peter watches them kiss and leaves ragged lines in the wood of Stiles’ window sill with his claws.  His breath comes sharp, features hardening as Cris pulls Stiles close—hand at his hip, fingers curved around the back of Stiles’ neck, their mouths sliding together in a lazy heat—and Peter is feels _anger_.

It boils in his chest, burns at the back of his throat, and he closes his eyes to steady himself even as his heart pounds in his ears.  He rolls his head, tries to alleviate the tension in his shoulders, and finds that he can’t find any sort of relief.  He bites on the inside of his cheek and can taste iron.

He hears the lights flick on first.

“Peter?”

Stiles sounds breathy.  Blissed. 

Turning around, Peter offers him a crooked grin, charming as ever.  He is not sure how long he had been standing in Stiles’ room; he is not sure how long Stiles was downstairs, kissing someone that wasn’t Peter, but he knows that it was  _too long_. 

Stiles smells like dog and lust and none of it is  _right_.  His smile wavers, eyes tracking over Stiles’ face, seeing kiss swollen lips and feeling his stomach roll.  The nice expression drops the second he spots the love mark on Stiles’ neck.

Stiles regards him warily.  “Peter—“

Something in Peter shifts.  Perhaps it even snaps. 

Stalking across the small room, Peter takes Stiles by the shirt front and hauls him forward away from the threshold of his bedroom.  He kisses him hard and messy, tastes blood that is not his own, and hears Stiles’ gasp.  Shutting the door and locking it, Peter shoves Stiles back against the wood and licks into his mouth like he belongs there.

Hands push at his shoulders, at his chest.  Stiles lets out a muffled sound that is definitely a moan; Peter can hear the blood rushing under Stiles’ skin.  He rucks Stiles’ shirt up with clawed hands, just to get at his skin, and Stiles whimpers, curls his fingers into Peter’s sweater and jerks at it.  Kissing Stiles breathless, Peter leaves pink, raised lines across Stiles’ lower back as he pulls him closer, letting out a pleased grumble as Stiles arches.

The kiss breaks, Stiles turning his face away and gasping heavily into the otherwise quiet of the room.  “Peter,  _what—_?”

He presses a thigh between Stiles’ legs firmly, earns a sharp mewl.  Stiles is hard, but he’s still pushing at Peter’s shoulders, shoving and shaking.  Panting, Stiles grunts as Peter lands a harsh grip on his hips and tugs him against his thigh; Stiles whimpers.

“Stop—“ Stiles hitches.  “Peter,  _stop it_.”

“You want it,” Peter mutters, mouthing down Stiles’ neck, marking over the hickey that is already there.  “I know you do.”

“I  _don’t_.” Stiles says.

Stiles’ heart lurches and Peter tugs him against his thigh again, feels Stiles quiver.  “You’re lying.”

“I don’t, Peter,  _I don’t_.” Stiles tries again, voice high and breathy.  “Stop.  Please,  _stop_.”

“I can smell it on you,” Peter insists, catching Stiles’ wrists and pinning them back against the door with a grip that is bordering on bruising.  “How badly you want me.  You can’t lie to me, Stiles.”

“ _Peter_ ,” Stiles says and it hiccups over his lips like a sob.

“I can give you so much more than that boy can, whatever he might be.”  Peter insists, teeth dragging over Stiles’ jaw, scraping.  “If you’d just  _fucking let me_.”

Stiles trembles, shaking his head.  “I don’t want this.  Peter,  _I don’t want this_.”

Gripping Stiles’ jaw, Peter kisses him again, harsh and claiming.  He doesn’t want to hear that.  The way Stiles goes pliant for him speaks truer to the boy’s desires than the words that Peter can’t think too long on.  The idea of Stiles not wanting him makes Peter’s blood boil.

He keeps Stiles pinned like that, keeps guiding him into a sloppy rut against Peter’s thigh, even as Stiles strains.  He’s consumed; in his envy, in his lust.  He does not stop until Stiles starts to cry.  Then, of course, he freezes.

Breath heavy, Peter stares at Stiles, watching the tears slip down his cheeks.  Stiles isn’t sobbing, isn’t sniffling, but there is a panicked rabbit to his heart rate, a quiver to his body.  He smells distressed under the heady smell of arousal, and Peter feels quite suddenly sick.

“Stiles—“

“I don’t want this,” Stiles whispers, voice tight.  “Peter, please—I don’t want this.”

Peter inhales shakily, nods, framing Stiles’ face with his hands.  “I know.  I know, I—“ his throat feels tight.  “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry, Stiles.”

Stiles’ hands are pressed to his chest, a steady pressure there that doesn’t mean much, but Peter imagines it gives Stiles some peace of mind.  He’s trembling.  Peter is tempted to carry him to bed, wrap him up, makes sure he’s okay.  Instead, he takes a step back because he knows Stiles probably doesn’t want Peter anywhere near him. 

Not now.  Maybe not ever.

“I’m sorry,” Peter repeats one more time, already withdrawing towards the window. 

Stiles stands there, watching.  He doesn’t say anything for a long, quiet minute.  Wrapping his arms around himself, Stiles shakes his head.

“Please, leave.” Stiles says, voice rough.  “I—Leave, Peter.”

Probably for the first time in his life, Peter takes someone’s orders. 


	7. fuck you (forgive me)

“Peter,” Stiles calls through the door, knock firm against the wood.  “Open up.”

Peter stares at the door.  It has been a week since Peter has seen him.  A week since his slip of control.  Since Peter has allowed himself to see anyone, let alone Stiles.  His hands curl into loose fists at his sides.

The knocking comes again.  More harsh.  More impatient.

“Open the fucking door, Peter.  I know you’re in there.” Stiles says, still rap-rapping his knuckles against the wood.

Peter takes a deep breath.  He can smell Stiles from where he’s standing in the area between his kitchen and his living room.  Lavish as his apartment is, it feels quite suddenly too small. 

There is a familiar itch under his skin.  He rolls his shoulders, lips in a thin line, clothes seemingly too tight if the hot prickle of the cold sweat that forms over his body is any indication.  His feet fell heavy, weighted in place against the hardwood floor.  He only moves when he hears Stiles slide a key into the lock on his door.

Stalking across the room, he jerks the door open, both he and Stiles stalling for a moment.  Stiles takes advantage of the way Peter won’t take his eyes off of him, won’t move, and slips through the threshold by him. 

“You had a key made?” Peter asks, pulling it free from the lock with a sharp motion. 

“Duh,” Stiles says over his shoulder, padding over to one of the many cardboard boxes and stopping to peer inside.  “Is this a joke?”

“Funny,” Peter sighs, shutting the door, just shy of too harshly.  “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

Stiles snorts; digging into the box, dredging out an armful of texts, and meandering over to Peter’s empty bookcase.  “My whole _life_ is a joke.”

“What are you doing?” Peter frowns.

“I’m here to _acquire_ your assistance with this month’s biggest murder mystery saga.” Stiles says, stacking the books messily before heading back for more.

Peter watches him.  “That’s not what I mean.”

“No?  Too bad.”  Stiles huffs, balancing tomes in his arms without finesse.  “Because that’s what we’re talking about.”

He teeters.  Peter’s hands curl at his sides again; he sways forward slightly, towards where Stiles finds his footing.  Biting down hard on his own tongue, Peter clears his throat.

“This thing is going after kids,” Stiles says by way of explanation even as he places the books haphazardly on the shelves.  “How fucked is that?  Who goes after _kids_?”

“Lots of things,” Peter mutters.

He’s easing closer, eyes never leaving the work of Stiles’ shoulders under loose black cotton.  Stiles is undoing all of his hard work.  Invading his space with his smell, with his sound, and Peter craves Stiles’ taste.  He swallows hard, hovering at Stiles’ side.

His fingers twitch.  There is a desire to reach for him.  The tightness along the breadth of his own shoulders is an ode to that.  Stiles glances up at him, brow lifting, and Peter’s eyes drop to his mouth before slipping back up. 

“You shouldn’t have come here,” Peter says.

Stiles purses his lips.  “What kinds of things?”

He keeps lining books up, out of order, uncaring in his motions, and Peter’s hand snaps up to stop him, fingers resting over Stiles’ fingers where they are wrapped around the spine of an older piece.  “Stop it.”

“No,” Stiles says.  “You don’t get to run off just because you’re a jackass.  It hasn’t stopped you before, why would it now?”

“What do you want to hear?” Peter sneers.  “That you’re a special little snowflake?”

His grip on Stiles’ hand goes tight.  Bones groan.  Stiles winces.

“That I can’t control myself around you?  That I don’t _want_ to?”  Peter crowds Stiles against the shelving, chest broad against Stiles’ back, words hot and low at his ear.  “I can’t.  And I don’t.  I would bend you over and have you _right here_ —“

He hears the charge just a second too late.  Electricity fires along his nerve endings and his muscles seize.  Stumbling back, Peter sucks in a shaky breath, still shuddering from the volts sparking in his veins.  His jaw locks up for a number of seconds.  He presses a hand to his side, feels the heat there, and stares at Stiles with slightly widened eyes.

Waggling the small stun gun, Stiles’ brows go up again.  Peter remembers the last time he’d seen it, at the grocery store, and remembers the warning he’d received.  There is no such curtesy this time.  Peter supposes he deserved it.

Pressing the switch down, Stiles lets it spark for only a second.  “Talon Mini.  Eighty _thousand_ volts.  If you were human, you’d be on the ground for a long time.”

“Good thing I’m not human,” Peter breathes.

“I suppose,” Stiles shrugs, tugging the stun gun back into waistband.  “Now, we’re going to go to Derek’s loft.  And you’re going to help us identify what it is we’re after.  And all of this?”

Stiles gestures to the boxes around the room.  The evidence that Peter’s running.  Leaving. 

“This is all going to stop,” Stiles says.

“Is it?”

“Yes,” Stiles insists.  “Or I’ll be showing up next time with something a lot more powerful than a dash of electricity.”

“Oh, will you, _boy_?” Peter’s eyes drop down to roam over Stiles, prowling forward one step, then two.  Stiles doesn’t move except to cross his arms, chin tilting up; firm defiance.  Peter wants to eat him whole.  “What makes you think you’ll make it out that front door?”

Stiles snorts.  “What?  Like it’ll be hard?”

“I can certainly make it difficult,” Peter assures.

Stiles smiles.  It’s small and a bit dark; Stiles cants his head to the side, gaze dropping in a mockery of how Peter had just looked at him.  When he meets Peter’s eyes again, he uncrosses his arms and holds his hands out.  An invitation. 

His slow stalking stutters to halt.  Peter feels something twist in him, remembers how prettily Stiles had moaned and then how terrified he’d looked—pinned between Peter and his bedroom door, pushing or trying to push Peter away—and feels heat at the back of his throat.  He glances away.  Stiles drops his hands.

“I know you’d like to think so,” Stiles nods.  “But you’ll be going with me to Derek’s.”

“You’re so sure.”

“I am,” Stiles nods again.  “Because I know you don’t want to hurt me.”

Peter looks his way, upper lip curling and twisting his mouth into something like a snarl.

“In fact, I’d say you want quite the opposite.”  Stiles adds, taking a few steps forward until there is only a foot or two between them, until Peter has gone rigid.  “Am I right?”

Inhaling sharply, Peter’s nostrils flare.  His jaw goes tight as Stiles chuckles, like he’s been stunned again. 

His fingers flex where his hands hang at his sides.  If he had less control, he’d undoubtedly be sporting claws.  Stiles smells like heat, sharp and confident, spices heavy to Peter’s senses.  It makes his mind wonder to all kinds of dark places; it doesn’t help that he hasn’t been able to see Stiles, touch him, speak to him in longer than he has in a number of months. 

Peter doesn’t think he’s had cravings like this in a very long time.  Stiles crosses his arms again, shuffles a bit, and clears his throat.

“Thought so,” he huffs.

“Is that why you’re here, then?” Peter asks.  “Some twisted act of retribution?  Going to rub it in, perhaps?”

“Revenge has always been your shtick,” Stiles says, reaching out and taking Peter’s wrist in a loose grip—loose enough for Peter to pull away, but he doesn’t.  “But I can’t say the idea doesn’t tickle me a little, considering.”

“Considering?” Peter asks, eyes where Stiles’ fingers tighten against his skin. 

“The ironically reversed rolls we seem to be in.  The teasing when you knew I wanted you.  The chasing when you realized I wasn’t waiting around.  And then of course the sexual assault— you have a _serious_ jealousy problem.”  Stiles says, almost idle, pulling Peter towards the door.  “Among your other, more colorful, traits.”

Peter shuffles after him—moth to flame, negative to positive.  “Is it your turn, then?  Am I to be teased?  To be punished?”

Stiles pauses, door halfway open, looking over at Peter with a small shake of his head.  “No.  Actually, I’m planning to forgive you.  Something I don’t think you’re very familiar with.”

Peter stares at him, a bit dumb, brow furrowed.  He doesn’t move for a long moment.

Stiles tugs at his wrist again.  “Come on.  I promise to tease you a little bit—you know, to lighten to blow.” 

Peter frowns.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles tugs harder.  “Come on.  Don’t make me taze you again.”

Stepping forward, Peter nods.  Stiles leads him with a triumphant little hop in his step.


	8. let yourself go

Peter was, as he almost always is, right when he told Stiles that beasts who like going after children are not uncommon.  However, when Derek tells him that it isn’t just infants but unborn children, it certainly narrows down the list.

They have texts scattered over the table.  Peter is leaning over one; profile struck in hues of red from the setting sun sinking out the vast window in Derek’s lost.  Across from him, Stiles is skimming through his copy of the Argent’s bestiary.  The only others with them are Lydia and Boyd, Derek having ordered everyone else out on patrol.  Peter is oddly grateful for their presence in the living room, books in hand, busying themselves with research.  It lessens the weight in his chest just enough for him to concentrate.

From time to time, Stiles’ phone chirps.  Updates from Scott and Allison where they’re posted at the hospital—as if whatever this was would attack there and not target the victims in their homes.  Glancing up, Peter watches Stiles for a quiet moment, sees him sag as he checks the screen and bites the inside of his cheek when Stiles pinches the bridge of his own nose.  Peter wants to round the table, ease the tension out of Stiles in any way he can; if they’d been alone, his control might have been loose enough to do so. 

Lydia brushes by to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee, though.  Peter focuses back on the matter at hand.

“Aswang,” Boyd says, quite suddenly, voice soft from where he’s curved over the coffee table.

“What?” Stiles frowns, looks his way, and Peter is already straightening out.

Boyd taps the open pages in front of him.  “An Aswang.  It’s like a uh… well, kinda like a vampire, I guess.”

Stiles shoots a sharp look Peter’s way.  “ _Vampires_?”

“Complete bullshit,” Peter shakes his head.  “But there are creatures that the myths are based off of.”

Lydia pokes her head out of the kitchen.  “What about vampires?”

“An Aswang,” Boyd says, twisting around to face them, brows up as he lifts the book in the air.  “It targets children in order to stay young.  Eats their insides.  Really gross, actually.”

“Haven’t the children been missing organs?” Lydia asks, brows furrowing as she steps out, arms crossed over her chest.

“Yes,” Stiles breathes, eyes on Boyd.  “What else does it say?”

“Usually women.  Book compares them to witches too.”  Boyd adds.

Peter shifts, hips resting against the table, brows scalp bound.  “How do you kill them?”

Boyd just grins. 

* * *

Tracking it down is, surprisingly, simple.  Once they know what they’re looking for, it narrows down their hunting grounds.  It is Erica and Isaac who find it, just at the edges of town, tracks smelling like blood and rage.  They call Derek who calls them and decides that if it is a solitary creature as the texts suggest, the wolves can handle it without too much hassle or danger.

Apparently they make quick work of it because Derek is walking through the door an hour later with the rest of the pack on his tail—all bright eyed from the rush, covered in sweat and dirt and what seems to be ash.  Peter watches Stiles plop down onto the couch with his friends, listening with a crooked smile as Scott regales him with their heroics. 

Derek approaches him, scowl firm, and Peter’s brows lift.  Taking him by the shoulder, Derek ushers Peter toward the kitchen, and when he speaks, his voice is low.

“You’re leaving?” he asks.

Peter blinks.  “I was considering the idea.  Did Stiles tell you?”

Nodding, Derek crosses his arms over his chest, brows pinched.  “Not why.  But he told me you were packed up.”

“It was a fleeting urge,” Peter shrugs.  “I’ve been persuaded to change my mind.”

“By Stiles?”

“Yes,” Peter admits.  “He did taze me, first, though.”

Derek barks out a surprised laugh.  His shoulders go loose and he leans back agains the counter with a bemused shake of his head.

Jaw going tight, Peter regards him.  It is not often that they are at ease with one another.  Peter is tempted to laugh with him; instead, he gives a small grin.

“What happened to make you want to leave in the first place?” Derek asks after a moment.

“Nothing good,” Peter says.

Derek pauses.  “Will it happen again?”

“Not if I can help it,” Peter replies.

“Good,” Derek nods slowly, clearing his throat as he shifts.  “That’s good.”

The heavy silence that falls after that is thick and long.  It breaks only when there is laughter from the living room.

Derek sighs and then smiles.  Peter thinks it might be the most content he has seen his nephew in a very long time, and there is a small part of him that feels guilty for adding to that misery.  That time has long since passed, though. 

Erica calls to them, voice clear as a bell as she raises her voice enough for everyone to hear.  When she says she’s going to be using Derek’s shower and stealing his clothes, Derek chuckles.  He holds out his own arms to examine them, and Peter sees the dirt streaked over Derek’s forearms and wonders if there is ash under Derek’s claws. 

“Don’t leave your towel on the floor,” he warns, almost idle.

They hear her cackle and Derek rolls his eyes with an air of fondness. 

“How was it?” Peter asks.  “Did the Aswang give you much trouble?”

“Against four werewolves and two hunters?  No.”  Derek huffs.

“Chris was there?”

“You said decapitation,” Derek shrugs.  “He had an axe.”

“How quaint,” Peter mutters.

“Turned to ash,” Derek adds.  “It was… very _Buffy_.”

Peter snorts.  “You’re kidding.”

Brows up, Derek just meets his gaze, smile crooked.  Peter laughs, faintly, and shakes his head.  

“And there was only the one?” he asks.

Derek hesitates.

Frowning, Peter straightens, arms crossing over his chest.  “Derek?”

“I did… catch a second scent.” 

“So there’s another one,” Peter frowned.

Derek gives a small nod. “Yeah, that appears to be the case.  I think it might have run off, though, to be completely honest.”

“What makes you think that?”

“It seemed like only one of them was living there.  The other scent was… faded by at least a couple of days.”  Derek says.  “So perhaps there’s nothing to worry about.”

Peter pauses but then nods slowly.  “Perhaps.”

* * *

They all stay at the loft.  The younger wolves are too vibrant, too thrumming to be sent home.  Instead, they all curl up around each other in the living room, TV droning into the early, pinkened skies of the morning.  They are a mess of limbs and quiet laughs until whatever high they’re coasting on putters to a stop; they sleep hard and long.

Derek had long since retreated to his bedroom by the time any of them begin to stir.  It is Stiles who wakes first, and Peter watches from where he has hovered at the dining room table all night.

Their eyes meet from across the loft, as though Stiles knew Peter would be there looking—Peter wouldn’t put it past him.  It lingers for a moment, and then Peter glances down at the cold cup of coffee he has curled his hands around.  The sleek and solid feel of porcelain against his palm is what keeps him grounded as he hears Stiles shuffle to his feet.  He focuses on the heat he can feel still clinging to the mug under his fingertips. 

He looks up again when he hears the chair adjacent to him slide back from the table.  Stiles settles there, elbows on the tabletop, fingers laced in front of him.  Peter’s gaze flits over him and admires the muss of his hair, the relaxed line of his shoulders, the warm scent of sleep still on his skin.  Stiles offers him a little smile.

“Good morning,” he says. 

Peter clears his throat.  “Good morning.”

From the living room, Erica grumbles and shifts.  She rolls to lay sprawled across Isaac and Boyd.  Stiles’ lips thin as he bites back a smile.

With a gesture of his head, he points to the kitchen before pushing to his feet.  He snatches up Peter’s mug, then turns and walks away.  Peter waits a moment, listens to Stiles rummage through the fridge, before sliding out of his seat to follow.  In the kitchen, Stiles is sitting on the counter waiting.

“I feel like we should talk,” he says and holds out a fresh cup of coffee for Peter.

“About?” He takes it.

“Don’t be dense,” Stiles snorts into his own mug, paled with cream and undoubtedly sweetened beyond tooth rotting levels.  “You know what.”

“I’m not exactly sure what you’d like me to say,” Peter sighs, leaning back against the opposing counter. 

Stiles’ brows go up.  “Not a single idea?  Nothing at all?”

Jaw going tight, Peter gives him a dry look.  “I’ve already apologized once.”

“And you think that’s enough?  Considering what you did?” Stiles asks.

“I don’t apologize unless I mean it,” Peter says, fingers tightening around his mug.  “I meant it.”

Stiles hums, lips pursing.  His gaze flits down over Peter; he has never felt more exposed than under Stiles’ assessing, possibly even accusing gaze.  He shifts from foot to foot, movement subtle, but Stiles chuckles and shakes his head. 

It is the bemusement that strikes Peter.  Takes him back to how this all started, standing in this kitchen together, months previous.  His lips tingle, so he licks them.  He wonders if he and Derek had never swapped bodies if he would have ever found out about Stiles’ feelings or developed any of his own.

“I actually don’t what to talk about what you did,” Stiles admits.  “I was scary and definitely not okay, but I’m not interested in talking about what you did or why you regret it.”

“What _do_ you want then?” he asks.

“I want you to tell me why,” Stiles breathes, straightening up a bit with a roll of his shoulders, taller than Peter where he’s sitting with his legs dangling on the edge of the counter. 

“You don’t know?”

“Oh, I do.” Stiles assures.  “But I want to hear you say it.”

Peter thinks he can hear his own teeth grinding.  Stiles just tilts his chin up a bit, setting his mug aside to rest his hands in his own lap.  Expectant.  Smug.  Peter feels that familiar twist in his belly.

“I want you.”  Peter says on a breath.  “More than anything I’ve wanted in a very long time.”

Stiles cants his head.  “You’ve already had me.  I’ve given that to you, remember?”

“I want more,” Peter adds, voice low—sort of dark, a bit like longing.  “I want everything.  I want it every day.  And I always will.”

Stiles’ smile is thin when he gives it.  “No, you won’t.”

“Stiles,” Peter frowns, sets his cup down, takes a step forward; he stops before reaching him, doesn’t trust his own control not to take too much of what he isn’t allowed to have.  “If you would let me, I could give you everything.”

His palms itch.

“I don’t want everything,” Stiles shakes his head.  “Even if you really could give me everything, I wouldn’t want it.”

“Why not?” Peter asks, voice lowering.  “Because of what I did?  Because you don’t want me anymore?”

Stiles’ lips press together tight.  His brows pinch together, draw up, and Peter wants to reach up and press his thumb to the furrow there.  He wants to crowd him back against the cabinets, find a place between his thighs, and kiss him until Stiles doesn’t know how to form the words Peter doesn’t want to hear.  Instead, his fingers curl into loose fists at his sides.

“Because I’ve moved on,” Stiles says.

Peter feels something burn in him.  It twists and sparks, wild and angry, lashing against his insides.  He takes a step back.

The expression that flits over Stiles’ face is one of pity.  Peter’s lips curls up, disdain and distaste like black tar on his tongue.  Stiles’ heart remains steady—undeterred, unwavering.  Peter sort of aches to rip it out, take it in his palms, and coddle the warmth for as long as he can.  His claws dig into his own palms.

“You can’t say you don’t want me,” Peter says.  “I know you do.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.  “Of course I _want_ you, Peter.  Of course I still _feel_ things for you.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’ve moved passed the part where I want to pursue anything with you other than what there already is,” Stiles slides off the counter, feet so bare and pale against the floor.  “I want you, and I care about you—but after everything that’s happened, I don’t think I can ever be more than this.  This, right here, right now.”

“And what is this?” Peter asks.

Stiles shrugs.  He looks so vulnerable, standing there in front of Peter, clothes still sleep rumpled.  He looks so sweetly earnest, smells like peppermint in his honesty.  Peter wants to bury his face against Stiles’ neck and breathe him in for days.

He stays steady when Stiles reaches out.  It is slow, tentative, but steady as he rests his hand against Peter’s arm and offers a smile that is more of a grimace.  Shuddering, Peter finds his breath comes easier, steadier, with Stiles’ fingers curling over his bicep.  Perhaps it is just another way he has become so wrapped in this figure of a young man, so entwined in his desire that just a touch brings him calm.

“I didn’t have the time to wait for you,” Stiles says, voice quiet.  “It’s selfish of you to have expected me to.”

“I’m a very selfish man.”

Stiles nods slowly—“I know.”—and leans in to press a kiss to Peter’s cheek.

It lingers like everything Stiles does to him seems to.  Peter knows that, even after this, he will feel it for days. 

Peter takes Stiles’ by the hips, allows himself that intimacy, and bites back a shiver when he feels the hot ghost of Stiles’ breath along his jaw.  He closes his eyes, goes utterly still as Stiles’ lips graze the corner of his mouth, and he thinks something inside of him might settle.  Might rest.  At least for a while.

“If you say we can still be friends,” Peter mutters.  “I might just have to rip your throat out.”

Stiles laughs, pulling back, and stepping out of Peter’s space.  “I just want to go back to normal.”

“I’m not a good person, Stiles.  I’m not sure if I can.  I certainly don’t want to.”

“Try.”

Peter’s brow goes up.  “Is that an order?”

“Yes,” Stiles nods.

He laughs too, short and exasperated.  “Or you’ll taze me?”

“Exactly,” Stiles says, hauling himself back up onto the counter.

Peter watches him drink his coffee.  There is a quiet as he shuffles back, leans against the opposite edge, grins crooked and gives a little shrug of his shoulder.

“Fine.”

Stiles beams; Peter feels devastatingly whipped.

* * *

It is after everyone is up that Stiles leaves.  They’re all eating breakfast in the midafternoon when he says he has to meet up with his dad.  Peter gives him a small nod as he departs and earns a smile in return.  There is a sadness, bitter at the back of Peter’s mouth, but also an odd contentedness. 

He sits at the stairs, watching the rest of the pack smile and eat with lazy movements.  At one point, Derek looks over with his brows arching up, but Peter just shakes his head.  He is fine where he is at.  Comfortable at this distance.

Resting his elbows on his knees, Peter tilts his head and listens to their quiet murmurs.  The entire loft sounds like a humming beehive, the buzz of it small and harmonious.  Then Scott speaks.

“So are we gonna go after the second one?”

Erica frowns.  “Second one?”

Isaac makes a noise in the back of his throat.  “Oh, yeah.  There was a second scent, wasn’t there?”

Clearing his throat, Derek sets his coffee on the table.  “The scent was older, Scott.  I don’t think we’ll have to worry.”

Scott’s expression pinches.  “But he goes to school with us.”

Everyone stalls.  Peter straightens out where he’s sitting, brows drawing tight.  Glancing his way, Derek scowls, and then leans forward, focus intent on Scott. 

“What _exactly_ do you mean, Scott?” he asks.

“The scent.  It’s exactly how Cris smells.”  Scott shrugs.  “You guys didn’t notice?”

Lydia’s lips thin.  “You mean the guy Stiles has been seeing?”

“The witch,” Derek mutters.

“Yeah,” Scott nods.

Boyd shifts in his chair.  “The book calls them witch-like.”

Derek shoves away from the table to his feet.  “Someone call Stiles.  Right now.”

Peter is already up, already headed for the door.  Behind him, Lydia is sighing.

“Why didn’t you mention this earlier, Scott?” she asks.

Scott shrugs again.  “It’s Sunday.  We won’t be in any danger until Monday.”

“What about _Stiles_?” she insists.  “What if he meets up with him today--?”

“Peter,” Derek calls and Peter doesn’t really stop, doesn’t even pause.

“I know where Stiles is headed,” he replies.  “Keep trying to call him.”

He shuts the door behind himself before he can hear Derek’s reply. 

The stairs seem to take forever.  When he reaches the parking lot, he stalls for a moment.  His car is back at his apartment.  Stiles had driven him here the night previous.  He doesn’t linger in the car park for long. 

He runs.

The direction is easy.  He knows where Stiles is headed, hopes that Stiles made it there, that he’ll look manic instead of being right in his panic.  His heart feels heavy, too fast, loud in his own ears.  Feet thudding against the concrete, breath heavy, he realizes the last time he felt so afraid was when he was burning—trapped with the screams of his family in his ears. 

It is a block before the Sheriff’s department that he finds him.  Cornered by someone that might have been the sweet looking boy Stiles had been dating for weeks, down an alcove between two buildings where no one can see them.  Peter stops before round the corner, pressing against the solid brick of a wall as he cants his head to listen.  Stiles speaks and his voice is calm, but even over this own thundering pulse, Peter can hear the stutter of Stiles’ heartbeat. 

“Cris, _please_.” He says, hands out, brows pinched.

Cris has his claws out, elongated and perhaps sharper than Peter’s own.  His warmed skin appears ashen up from his fingers, to forearms, to where it fades into the gold of his biceps. 

“It’s good, actually.” Cris says in his, like words seeping past fangs.  “That your mutts killed her.  I felt it happen, you know.  Felt her thrall on me snap.”

“Cris—“

“Did you know she was my sire?  A mother, of sorts.” Cris adds, crowding in closer.  “She has had be under her thumb for _half_ a _century_.  I should honestly thank you.”

“Well, you’re welcome, then.” Stiles breathes.  “I mean, uh, a thank you card could have done the trick.  Didn’t need to do this face to face or anything.”

Cris laughs.  “Do you want to know why I’m okay with her passing?”

Peter watches the way Stiles cringes away from the claws Cris ghosts along his cheek.  He feels something in his chest tighten, and he eases around the corner.  His movements are slow, careful, footsteps silent against the concrete.  His own claws ease out, a quiet little _snick_ , as Cris curls his hand loosely against Stiles’ jugular.

He hears Stiles swallow thickly, wonders if the hum Cris lets out is pleased at the feel of Stiles’ throat working.  Stiles’ eyes catch his over Cris’ shoulder, widen minutely, and his mouth thins.  Slowly, Peter brings his hand up, finger pressing to his lips as he draws closer. 

“Because the second I saw you, I wanted to turn you.”  Cris says, leans in, inhales deep.  “She said it would be too suspicious.  Said there can’t be more than two of us together—too many mouths to feed.  But she’s gone now.”

“I don’t want to be one of you,” Stiles grunts.

“It’s a good thing that after you turn, you won’t be able to say no, then.”  Cris smiles, teeth razor sharp and gleaming. 

Peter snatches him up by the back of the neck.  “Get your hands off of him.”

Everything after that seems to blur. 

Peter just knows that Stiles ends up clutching at his own throat, and that there is blood seeping past his fingers.  His eyes flare blue then, and as he rips into the Aswang, the Aswang rips into him.  Curses spit red, and Peter doesn’t register the sharp pain of a hand digging through his flesh to the meat of his side, jagged lines dragging along his ribs with a pull.  He smells the wolfsbane, though, feels that burn of it hit his bloodstream.

The Aswang laughs in his face, eyes a pale and eerie grey.  Peter grits his teeth tight, reaches up, and grasps him under the chin and by the top of his head.  He torques Cris’ head, watches those ghostly eyes go wide, and grins with a dark crookedness as there is a _snap-crunch_ of bone twisting, fracturing, serrating.  The angle is grotesque, but Peter doesn’t linger long enough to let it matter.

Digging his claws into the wet, sticky heat of Cris’ larynx, Peter rends the flesh apart.  His blood is just as red, just as metallic as any human’s.  It does not stop, Peter does not stop, until he has torn the Aswang’s head from its shoulders.  Then it shrivels, shrinking, until it dissolves into ash.  Peter stands, panting, face spackled in a mess of crimson and staring at where the Aswang once was.

He looks to his side, sees Stiles looking at him with wide, horrified eyes, and grins crookedly before toppling to the pavement.  Stiles croaks his name and stumbles toward him.  He lands hard next to Peter, knees cracking against the ground, and reaches down to cover Peter’s bleeding side with his already stained fingers.

“Peter,” he breathes.

Peter reaches up, frowns as he runs his fingers along the jagged lines at Stiles’ throat—not deep enough to cause worry, but deep enough to bleed thick down to taint the collar of Stiles’ shirt.  He earns a soft hiss, Stiles wincing, but Stiles is too busy flitting, too busy yanking off the layer of plaid on his shoulders to ball it up and press it to the gash deep in Peter’s side. 

“Are you going to heal?” he asks, pressing hard.  “Shouldn’t you have stopped bleeding already?”

Peter laughs; it hurts when he does.  “Must’ve known we’d be coming for him.  Wolfsbane on his claws.”

Stiles looks considerably paler.  “Are you going to be okay?”

Breath heavy, Peter nods, hand resting over where Stiles is stoppering off the flow of blood; he’s trembling.  “I’ll be fine, Stiles.”

“Peter—“ Stiles’ phone buzzes, he fumbles with a free hand, pulling it out and pressing it to his ear.  “Derek, you have to—We’re in the alley off main.  Get here _fast_.”

He doesn’t even hang up, just tosses his phone aside in order to press his hand back over where theirs are laced and held tight against Peter’s side.  Stiles is shaking too, Peter can feel it, and he laughs again—burn electric up his side. 

“Stiles,” Peter mutters, squeezing at Stiles’ fingers.  “I really am sorry.”

Stiles shakes his head, smile wavering.  “It’s okay.  It’s okay, Peter, it doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” Peter insists.  “I could’ve said something sooner.  Maybe things would have been different.”

“They can still be different,” Stiles says, pressing even harder to the wound at his side.  “They can.”

Peter shakes his head, the world sort of dip-spin-tilts.  He feels nauseous.  His eyes close.

Fingers curl into his shirt and jerk him slightly.  Stiles shakes him until his eyes open again.  Peter can still smell sharp spike of lemon—worry—over all the copper in the air.  He watches Stiles’ jaw flex and grins again.

“It’s fine, Stiles.” He assures.  “Derek will be here soon.  Everything will be fine.  I’m already healing.”

Stiles swallows, nodding with a watery little smile.  “You promise?”

“I promise,” he says.

"When this is done, we'll talk, okay?" Stiles insists. 

Peter nods.  "We'll talk.  I promise." 

If Stiles had accepted the bite back when Peter was an alpha, he would hear the lie in Peter’s pulse.  Stiles squeezes at his hand, leans down, and kisses his forehead. 

Peter lets his eyes close again and savors the warmth of Stiles’ lips on his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully you enjoyed. 
> 
> If you have any questions, comments, or concerns-- feel free to leave it below or send me an ask on tumblr.

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: explicit sexual content, foul language, dubious consent, obsessive behavior, attempted sexual assault, unhealthy relationship (by the end).


End file.
